


A Matter Of Opportunity

by JustSimpleThings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blind Sherlock, Deaf John, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustSimpleThings/pseuds/JustSimpleThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had to meet to make each other whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter Of Opportunity

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from this quote:  
> “Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity.” Hippocrates
> 
>  
> 
> I can't express my gratitude enough to all the people who helped me with this fic. Thanks to Olivia (marystirling), Taylar (Moriarty is King), Amanda (eclipsed flower), Enya (The Wistful Bloom) and The-Turducken-Affairs. Thanks for making the story clearer and better flowing; for all your advice and encouragment.

’Sherlock, this is John Watson. John is deaf.’ Stamford said as a way of introduction. The lab echoed from their footsteps as they came to stand next to the detective. Sherlock ceased his typing and turned towards his visitors, extending a hand.

’Nice to meet you John, the name is Sherlock Holmes.’ There was no answer, but he felt a hand brush against his own. He felt the calluses on the digits, their exact location and texture, noticed the slight tremor that ran through John when Sherlock squeezed his fingers during the handshake. He sniffed the air lightly.

‘Ah, army doctor! Curious profession for a deaf person.’

The comment was followed by an even longer silence. Finally, Stamford spoke, thrumming his fingers on the table nervously.

‘John was shot in Afghanistan…’

‘His left shoulder. I know that, Stamford, don’t be tedious! How did you become deaf, John?’

No answer, again, though Sherlock could tell they were signing.

‘He was near to the epicentre of an explosion. It happened while his shoulder was being treated at the station hospital during a Taliban attack. That was three months ago. John is learning sign language at the moment.’

Sherlock nodded. He understood everything now. Shy, modest personality. Afraid of being humiliated, of being perceived as anything but normal. John can speak, but he doesn’t want to because he is afraid of sounding strange, because he can’t control the way his voice sounds now. Or at least, that’s what he thinks.

‘Sign language is a highly inconvenient method of communication if he is going to come live with me.’

Silence, shuffling.

‘No, I haven’t told him about you yet…’ Stamford said while signing it as well, clearly answering John’s question. ‘He must have deduced it. Sherlock is a detective.’

‘A consulting detective.’ Sherlock added, somewhat annoyed. He touched his watch – it was almost noon. The corpse he had been waiting for should have had arrived at the morgue by now. He grabbed his compact white cane, but didn’t open it as he strode toward the door.

‘Well, this has been enlightening. Please, tell John that I will be waiting for him tonight at 6 pm sharp, the address is 221B Baker Street. He should bring all his belongings, no point in wasting any more time in that hellhole he is living in. He smells like mould.’

The door slammed shut behind Sherlock. Stamford translated the instructions for John, as Sherlock had requested. Sherlock was facing away as he spoke the last couple of sentences so John didn’t have a chance to catch any of it. John was furious at Mike’s explanation, but the old comrade was fairly sure that John would go to Baker Street that evening. John already looked livelier than Mike had ever seen him in the last three weeks, since he had been released from the hospital.

Mike was satisfied; he had made the right call.

 

***

 

Sherlock was born blind. He had plenty of time to adjust to it. He did not consider it a disadvantage. It was at times a hindrance, but there were greater hindrances in the world. He had his intellect and anything he lacked in ability, he compensated with his genius quite well.

Sometimes though, when he tried to get answers out of Anderson, of all people, he wondered if it would be easier if he had an assistant who could see and actually disclose what he saw.

‘I know that the skin is bruised, I asked for the exact shade of the bruising! Do you understand what the word ‘colour’ means?’ Sherlock hollered after getting two useless answers.

‘I have already told you that the time of death was approximately Wednesday morning.’ Anderson sneered back.

‘Yes, you have, but that can’t be accurate judging by the scent and humidity of the skin.’

‘If you know that, why do you ask?’

‘Because I would like to know if he died due to suffocation or a heart attack!’ Sherlock shot back impatiently.

‘That’s quite enough Sherlock.’ Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder and motioned for him to get up from his crouch.

‘If only Anderson would just co-operate...!’ Sherlock made a sweeping motion and managed to almost hit Lestrade in the jaw. He realised his mistake and cringed. ‘I’m sorry. You are right, it will be best if I go home and wait for the lab results. I will think about it till then.’

Lestrade squeezed his shoulder, clearly apologetic, but Sherlock didn’t care. In those moments, he truly felt helpless. What good was he if he could not even do his job properly? It was after such failures that Sherlock was closest to relapses. He would go home and think about it until he fell asleep on the couch and his dreams would be made of cocaine fuelled euphoria.

He had been full of resentment as a teenager. He hated that his mother would never allow him to go anywhere by himself. She always treated Sherlock like he was fragile, or worse – an invalid. Less than a person, handicapped. Sherlock still sneaked out of the family estate whenever he could; to gather moss in the garden, to go climbing in the nearby hills. He was always scolded for it.

When he was finally sent off to college, he did everything he could not under his family’s watchful eyes: sex, alcohol, drugs. And then more drugs. Sherlock loathed admitting it, but he knew he would be dead by now if Mycroft hadn’t intervened. It was his brother who checked him into rehab, who paid for the first couple months of rent of the apartment Sherlock moved to; 221B Baker Street.

‘It is very central, good location, close to the underground and cab station. Sherlock will be safe here.’ Mycroft had said. Mother didn’t argue for once. She never made an effort to contact Sherlock again after he became an addict.

Sherlock was 25 years old by then, and just recently clean.

Since then, for the past six years, he has been working on cases with Lestrade. He had been involved in many dangerous and life-threatening situations, but nothing upset him more than not being able to achieve what he wanted by himself. Sherlock would rather be kidnapped by a criminal, than sit at home and admit that he was unable to chase him down alone.

The fact that apart from Lestrade everyone at the Yard hated him didn’t make things easier.

 

***

 

Two days after John moved in, Sherlock’s patience expired.

He heard the familiar clicking sounds John always made when he was putting on the kettle, so he marched into the kitchen and grabbed John’s formerly injured shoulder.

John shouted in sudden pain.

‘Listen here!’ Sherlock sneered at him. He made sure to articulate carefully, so John could read his lips with ease. He started off at a normal volume, but as he talked, it escalated rapidly due to his pent-up frustration. ‘I don’t care that you are afraid of not seeming normal. Guess what! You are not normal. You never were to begin with. You became a soldier when you could have lived a normal, dull life as a GP. These wounds, your deafness – they are just proof of how unique you are. So stop hiding and fucking use your voice already!’ Sherlock let go of John’s shoulders as he heard his breathing even out. He sighed. ‘I can help you. I can tell you if you speak too loudly. You will get used to speaking without hearing yourself. But in order to achieve that, you have to speak.’

To make sure that John understood, Sherlock quickly signed the last couple of sentences.

He felt John’s bafflement at seeing him sign. Sherlock hadn’t shown him until now that he spoke sign language. The detective had learned it years ago, because it had been necessary for a case. He didn’t like it though, because he had to be touching the other person’s hands to be able to read it. Too much body contact.

John cleared his throat.

‘Okay.’

Sherlock felt goose bumps rise on his skin from the sound. It was a nice, low, masculine tone. Not too loud, not too soft. A bit hesitant.

He nodded and graced John with a genuine smile.

‘Perfect.’

 

***

 

John gained confidence quite quickly. Sherlock was meticulous about correcting John’s pronunciation and intonation whenever necessary. The detective always made sure to stand face-to-face with John and articulate clearly when he spoke to him; he only used signing when he wanted to explain something complicated or if John did not understand him right away. Those occurrences became rarer and rarer as John’s lip-reading skills improved.

John was also considerate to Sherlock. He made sure to make a lot of noise whenever he was in the flat. Stomping with his feet, clicking spoons, turning on the telly with the volume almost but not quite turned down. Sherlock tried not to startle John by advancing too quickly when he wanted to speak with him. He never grabbed the doctor from behind again after John had voiced his concern that if Sherlock kept doing that he was going to have a heart attack.

John went with Sherlock to cases, where his assistance proved to be invaluable. As a doctor, he could deduce the time and cause of death fairly accurately and whenever Sherlock asked him to describe the part of the scene he couldn’t perceive, John refrained from asking ‘why?’ as Anderson always did and just answered the question with as much detail as possible.

It was thanks to John that they had caught this serial killer. Sherlock had asked if John saw any unusual residues on the rug and when John answered that there were animal hairs on it, Sherlock knew that would be the key. It turned out that the killer owned a rare breed of cat. So rare in fact, that they managed to locate him going on that alone. Sherlock had a good hunch based on the shopping list the killer had left, which had cat food on it, but if John hadn’t helped collect the hairs, they could never have found the killer.

They headed back to Baker Street feeling victorious. Sherlock laughed as he closed the door behind them, hearing John do the same. John led them to the couch, where Sherlock squeezed John’s hand to make sure he was paying attention to him.

‘That was fantastic. The way Anderson shut up when he realised that his theory was absolutely debunked – priceless!’

Sherlock heard John’s sharp intake of breath and waited, expecting to hear his voice, but instead, he felt his breath on his face, nearing his lips. Sherlock closed the distance between them without hesitation.

It has been an utter pain, waiting for John to come out of his shell. Every second of it had been worth it, of course, but he just couldn’t wait to be able to touch John properly. To memorise his face in greater detail, to get to know the exact texture and scent of his hair… So far Sherlock had to go on so little.

He was torn between his undeniable yearning and the fear of rejection.

‘Are you sure you want this? We could stay friends.’ Sherlock said softly.

‘Shut up and kiss me!’ John answered, voice pitched a bit higher than usual. Beautiful, exquisite; Sherlock would never correct him. The frantic need the ex-soldier felt was palpable.

Despite that, Sherlock stopped him again, with hands on his cheeks.

‘I don’t want to talk any more than you do, but I have to know this: have you ever been with a man before?’ John shook his head gently, and Sherlock's hands followed the motion. ‘And do you want to?’ John nodded, a decisive ‘yes’.

‘I’m going to ravish you…’ Sherlock whispered, in a deep, dark voice, and John shuddered as he felt the vibration of his soon-to-be lover’s throat under his fingertips. Sherlock enjoyed doing this: making John read his lips, while John’s fingers rested on his throat. The detective always claimed that it would help John learn to differentiate sounds based on vibration frequencies alone, but he knew that was a load of crap. He did it because he liked the way John’s fingers twitched, how skittish this exercise always made him. Relished the closeness and heat of his body.

‘Please!’ John keened, suddenly, unexpectedly. Sherlock had never heard his voice sound like that before. He pushed John back, mouthing along his jawline, enjoying the breathy sighs his kisses elicited. John smelled like male; of musk and shaving cream and a bit of sweat.

Sherlock couldn’t hold back any longer; he stood up and dragged John along with him to his bedroom. He had no trouble navigating as he had memorised the exact dimensions of the flat long ago. Sherlock’s bed was bigger and his sheets much, much softer. John never cared about luxury, but even he could appreciate the softness of the Egyptian cotton as he stroked his hand through it.

They took off their clothes, never letting go of each other entirely.

John felt strangely self-conscious despite the fact that Sherlock couldn’t see. The taller man would soon be touching him all over, feeling out the ragged scar on his left shoulder, where the bullet had entered. He would feel the smaller, raised bumps on the left side of his face, where small pieces of shrapnel had lodged into his skin. It did not look particularly gruesome, but it was clear that he had small scars scattered across that side of his face and neck. Compared to Sherlock, John was short, his hair was unremarkable, he was stocky, but getting soft around the middle, the skin on his hands and feet was scratchy and rough where Sherlock’s was soft…

Sherlock chose that moment to stroke across his hair, and as if it was fascinating, he ran his fingers through it again and again, leaning in to sniff it slightly.

John couldn’t see the whole sentence Sherlock muttered, but the end of it looked like he was saying:

‘Softer than I had imagined. Can I?’

And then Sherlock was touching his face and it did not feel weird at all. John moaned with pleasure when Sherlock’s hands ran down his chest and grazed his nipples, turning them into hardened nubs.

Sherlock was paying very close attention to every bit of him, but it did not feel like scrutiny. It felt like worship, admiration. John felt his throat tighten.

‘You’re beautiful. You know that, right?’ John whispered. Sherlock smiled and nodded a bit. Smug bastard.

John felt a bit more confident now and pushed Sherlock down on the bed. He loved the way Sherlock’s pale blue eyes glittered. Even if he couldn’t see with them, they were very expressive. At the moment, they spoke of surprise and anticipation.

John hesitated for a second, then decided to get on with his plan, something he had thought about countless times already. He settled between Sherlock’s legs and took his hardening cock in his hands. It was a masterpiece, long and thick, and perfectly in proportion with Sherlock’s long lean body. Compared to his milky white skin, the skin there was a bit darker, a dusty shade of pink. John leaned down and licked the head experimentally.

Sherlock felt like he was drowning in sensations. The scent of John’s and his own arousal was getting stronger and stronger and the wet touch of his tongue was making him keen. John was very gentle but Sherlock didn’t mind. He hadn’t received a blowjob in years; anything stronger than this would have driven him to completion too soon. Sherlock put his hand on John’s head and kept stroking it softly. He shuffled so he could reach the lubricant in his bedside table and when he found it, he slipped it to John. John took it, but instead of starting to prepare Sherlock, he tugged Sherlock up.

‘I-I want you to fuck me.’ Sherlock felt like he could come right then and there. He kissed John to shut him up and laid him down in the exact same spot where he had been lying moments ago. He knew that John must be looking at him, so he made sure to look back in his direction while he whispered.

‘You are a man of surprises, John Watson. Always looking for danger.’ John laughed, then gasped as he felt Sherlock wrap his lube-slick hand around his prick. It felt like velvet and he couldn’t keep from making small noises. Sherlock seemed to love them, so he didn’t bother stifling them.

Sherlock’s hand seemed to be everywhere, stroking his thighs, his nipples, then his cheeks, and finally, when John was about to snap, he felt the cold, slippery fingers at his entrance. Sherlock kept stroking his cock with precise strokes, making sure that John was close to his release but never actually let him reach it. Then suddenly, the hand was gone, and Sherlock was lifting his legs up, stuffing a pillow under John’s hips.

‘What the - ?’ John started to ask before his question was swallowed by a moan. Sherlock had put his exquisite, soft lips to work and was mouthing his perineum, licking a broad stripe across his bollocks and then returning to caress his hole. John felt his cheeks heat up, but even though he knew this was dirty, it felt amazing. Sherlock’s hand was back on his cock, stroking him with firm, slow touches.

When the first finger breeched him, it felt overwhelming. He almost had to warn Sherlock, because he felt like he was going to come that second. Sherlock noticed and slowed down his ministrations even more and John mewled – a sound that made Sherlock go absolutely wild.

When Sherlock had two fingers buried knuckles-deep in John’s soft, pliant body, he decided that it was enough. He couldn’t wait anymore. Without warning, he slicked up himself and positioned himself between John’s legs, pulling his legs over his shoulders.

‘John…’ Sherlock moaned mindless with want as he positioned his cock and started to push in.

John’s eyes widened and he tried to breathe through the initial pain, as he felt Sherlock’s soothing touches. When he felt that Sherlock was still, he was finally able to relax. Sherlock dropped one of his leg and his prick slid in deeper, touching something in John that made sparks go off behind his eyes.

‘Oh my god! There! There, more! Sherlock!’

Sherlock started to rut mindlessly, his face contorting into a beautiful expression. He looked completely absorbed, chanting something that looked like ‘John, John, John…’.

Suddenly, John found that he couldn’t hold back anymore. He tried to touch his cock, to finish himself, but Sherlock batted his hand away.

‘Please, Sherlock, I need…’ Before he could tell him what he needed, he shouted as Sherlock has sped up impossibly, pounding into him with such force that John thought he was going to lose his mind. Suddenly, the pillow slipped, changing the angle of the penetration and it was perfect. John shouted as he came untouched. Sherlock moaned as his own release hit seconds later and collapsed in a boneless heap on top of John, letting his cramping legs fall to the sides.

John was lost to the world for a good half minute, trembling from the pleasure he could still feel emanating from where Sherlock was buried inside him. It felt so strange but… good. Better than good – perfect. He felt like they were finally, truly connected.

Sherlock drew his attention to himself by caressing John’s face.

‘That was fantastic. You are going to be sore tomorrow.’

John smiled.

‘It was worth it.’ He said, and then winced when he felt Sherlock slip out. Okay, that is really going to be… memorable. John smiled in spite of himself and entwined his legs with Sherlock’s, burying his head in the crook of his shoulder again to inhale their combined scents deeply.

Every thought and worry could wait until tomorrow.  
  


 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments will be appreciated and by that I mean adored to bits. :3


End file.
